Humility is a
purification through the elimination in oneself of imaginary good.
Where “I love our protesters” means exactly opposite. Emerson's
eyeball grows bulbous with anger. A
murderer preens before mirrors, then captures himself on his phone.
We no longer
see through our eyes. They've been taken, arranged along paths in a
sculpture garden: all
gaze and no refraction. Eye
walls. There's blood in the
stalls, blood under the sinks, blood by the bar, blood pulsing in
our ears. We need to know his motive. But meaning has no purchase now.
You can't buy it
on-line without a license. My
life had stood. And hers, and his. We've outsourced death's solitude. They-died-together is as good
as it gets.
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